


After me, the deluge

by Issay



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Skyfall, Q has cats, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>„We're the creatures made of blood and shadow,” mutters Moneypenny one night, drunk on bourbon and sprawled all over Q's carpet. Her long fingers are sinking in Bonaparte's soft charcoal fur, the cat is on her lap purring like an Aston Martin engine. “We can't be touched by those who are not like us.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	After me, the deluge

Sometimes Q dreams about life without MI6. A normal life, with a boring job somewhere in an IT department, a white-picket fence somewhere on the outskirts of London agglomeration, with three cats and a normal, equally boring husband.

It's one scary fucking dream.

„We're the creatures made of blood and shadow,” mutters Moneypenny one night, drunk on bourbon and sprawled all over Q's carpet. Her long fingers are sinking in Bonaparte's soft charcoal fur, the cat is on her lap purring like an Aston Martin engine. “We can't be touched by those who are not like us.”  
Q pours her another drink and smiles tenderly, knowing well how the rest of the evening will go: she'll end up in his guest room, on freshly changed sheets and with Josephine, his tabby, playing with Eve's hair. Q will stand in the doorway for a moment, just watching and listening to the soft snores. Then he'll turn and go to his own bedroom blessed with the happy knowledge that at least for this night he is not alone in the apartment. In the morning, he'll make coffee and patiently wait for Eve to take her shower and stumble to the living room, cursing under her breath, not too loud because of the pounding headache. He'll give her the traveling cup filled with dark, sweet liquid and he'll drive them to work. Someone will see them in the lobby, entering together, and before noon most of the MI6 will be updating their betting charts.  
They will both laugh, mostly because Moneypenny has a boyfriend and if one day Q's sexual orientation becomes public knowledge, Tanner will make a lot of money on this particular bet.  
“I've never killed anyone,” he says conversationally before sipping his bourbon. “Well, not directly. I've killed thousands with my code.”  
Eve laughs. There is something dark and bitter about the sound, Talleyrand opens one green eye and looks at the pair of humans with something unpleasantly reminding Q of the previous M.  
“And they say that the double-ohs are deranged. We're the real monsters, aren't we, Q? We lie and hide all this blood, all this death, we give them guns and directions and book flights for them… We point them when it's needed and we treat them like guns. And when their usefulness runs its course, we leave them to die. We hope that they'll die.”  
He's quiet for a moment, trying to find words.  
“You think she deserved it? M, I mean. The old one.”  
“The dead one,” she corrects him without pressure in her voice. “Yeah. I think she would sacrifice us without any second thoughts if she had to. In a way, Silva was right.”  
“Silva trusted in a game without trust,” Q's tone is harsher than he wanted, his fingers are tight on his glass. “Now they will make sure that we're dead. Who do you think they'll send to deal with me once my loyalty is questioned, hmm?”  
Moneypenny laughs again and finishes off her drink, shaking her head when Q reaches for the bottle. She doesn't answer. They both know, there are no happy endings, just a clean shot from a nearby rooftop.

It doesn't change the fact that sometimes he dreams. Would he have children? No, kids are too messy, they require attention, he has no patience for that. Steady job, 9-to-5 kind, no politics, explosions, late nights. Something nice that would allow him to go to dinner with his husband, catch a movie in the cinema. Sunday strolls in the park, Christmases and Easters, gentle, boring life in the rhythm of passing seasons – not threats. 

Yeah, right.

“Double-oh five, I believe I said left. Also known as another right so be so kind and turn now.”  
It's late, most of his branch is already fast asleep in their warm beds – there is only the skeleton crew of the night shift and he, stuck in his office, monitoring 005 on her mission in Bucharest. It wasn't supposed to be anything complicated at first, some low level mobster got his hands on classified British documents, Clara was sent to retrieve them and dispatch the unfortunate crime lord. Those missions are always easy at first, sighs Q wordlessly. “Left!”  
“Sorry, busy killing baddies,” she snaps over the comms, Q doesn't have any visuals, just a dot of her tracker on a map. Fucking CCTV, never works as it's supposed to.  
“Baddies, double-oh five? What are you, twelve?”  
Agent grunts something in return, he hears gunshots and sees that she's running.  
“Now right, you'll avoid a dead end,” Q instructs patiently, more running, another fight, this time she exchanges blows with someone, he can hear bones cracking and suddenly something wet, something that makes the hair at the back of his neck stand…  
“Fuck,” says Clara over the comm softly, there's something weird about it, this kind of absolute shock that happens only in crisis. Q closes his eyes for a second when her wet breath hitches, she chokes, sound of wheezing fills his ears as he dispatches the medevac team through he knows it's too late. She's going to die before they reach her and he is going to listen to every second of her death.  
“I'm going to die here,” she mumbles. Q can imagine the scene: late night, the street has to be dark, the man who wounded her – who killed her – is long gone, she's sitting against a wall of some warehouse, blood on her lips and chin, hand still on the gun because she's a double-oh till the very end.  
“Help is on the way,” Quartermaster answers soothingly. They both know she doesn't have time. It doesn't matter. “They're going to evacuate you and patch you up, and after you're back home...”  
“Q?”  
“Yes?”  
“Shut up. And make sure someone takes my dog,” she coughs, he can hear she's spitting liquid. “Don't want him to go to the shelter...”  
“Of course, double-oh five,” he's painfully aware it's not enough, it's never enough. “Whatever you want, Clara.”  
“Thanks,” her whisper is pained, it won't be long. So he sits there and listens to every shallow, painful breath, every hitch of her voice, and then silence falls over the comms.

Her dog turns out to be a German shepherd. 001 takes it home.

There are days when he thinks it's all for nothing. Days like this, spent pointless debriefings and interviews and endless paperwork that will never be read by anyone. He fills out his reports, informs M that they need to recruit a new 005 and grieves in silence. His grief is not entirely honest, he feels like it's his duty because Clara didn't have anyone, not really, just that damned dog and no one will miss her. Her name will go up on the wall and some agents will remember her for a time but that's it. People will move on, soon there will be another 005 filling her shoes. Clara will never be a legend the way Trevelyan was or Bond is. She was twenty seven when she died. Q is twenty nine and wonders if he would be remembered.

The painful truth they don't tell you when you first enter the world of espionage is this: there will always be another enemy of the state, another crisis, another mission. You are expendable. You are your hands, your brains, your reflexes. You are needed. But the moment you stop being useful, you will be replaced by someone better than you.

“That wasn't your fault,” says a deep, scratchy voice couple of days later. Q looks up from the screen and silently watched Bond close the door. With a grace of a predator the double-oh crosses Q's office and sits on a sofa. “Her death. It wasn't you.”  
“Yes, thank you, double-oh seven, for your insight but I can assure, I already know it wasn't my fault. He had a knife. She didn't have time to reload. He was faster. The math is simple,” Q answers with irritation and goes back to writing another report, this time from 002's mission in Washington, completely ignoring the other man. But he can feel the icy blue eyes watching him, assessing. Why is Bond here? To check if Q isn't compromised? Laughable.  
“Then why are you sad?”  
Q's hands still on the keyboard.  
“Because some of us are actually human, Bond. I've lost an agent, I've heard her die. I'm not compromised, I do not require a psych eval, being upset is a normal, human reaction. Now, do you need anything? If not, get the fuck out of my office.”  
He's still not looking at double-oh seven when the man slowly gets up and in three long steps marches to Q, pulls him up and before Quartermaster has time to react, hot, chapped lips are on his own. Bond kisses like the world is ending, like he will never get to kiss another person again in his life, like he wants to devour Q whole and keep him safe somewhere inside. It's the kind of a kiss that burns away any conscious thoughts and keeps regrets at bay. There is safety in the slide of their tongues, and trust beyond any words. Q takes a deep breath when they part, only for a couple of centimeters, their lips still hovering close, the air still shared. Bond – James – smells of gunpowder and resin, and he's radiating warmth, Q's hands are resting on the man's chest, feeling the strong, quick beating of Bond's heart underneath his fingertips.  
And then he's gone, before Q has a chance to react, James simply turns away and leaves in a hurry.  
“What the fuck?” Q asks the empty office, slowly sitting down and trying to stop his hands from shaking.

Maybe that night the man in his dreams – his boring husband in another life – has bright blue eyes and a dangerous smile. Maybe.

“What's going on with you?” asks Eve the next day over their usual Tuesday lunch in MI6 cafeteria. “You seem...”  
“Overly caffeinated? Overworked? Like I haven't slept in a couple of days? Yes to all,” he smiles to her and prays to anyone who possibly listens she'll leave it alone.  
“Happier than usual.”  
Q looks at his friend, eyebrows raised.  
“Are you feeling okay? Feverish, maybe? Slightly delusional?”  
He tries to make it a joke, she knows it. Well, fuck, he thinks. Now she'll never leave it alone.  
“How is Bond these days?” Eve asks innocently few minutes later, pushing her plate away. Q freezes in the middle of chewing his lasagne.  
“He was sent to Marseilles this morning, some diplomatic trouble, I think. Not sure, R is running the show.”  
“Oh? I thought he was one of those you prefer to run yourself,” something of a smug smile appears on her lips. Danger! Danger! Q ignores the alarm screaming in his head and swallows the last bite.  
“High time R started getting more comfortable with double-ohs. Between paperwork and design projects I barely have time to sleep, she can take over. Well, not Marcus. The fucker will make her life a living hell, then sleep with her, and then we'll have another Brotherton affair on our hands.”  
Eve shudders, remembering the sexual harassment lawsuit brought against 003 by one of the Medical staffers. Good God, that one was a fucking mess, M was livid and Tanner completely lost control over the situation.  
Q allows himself a long breath of relief. 

“M offered me a retirement plan.”  
Q almost jumps in his seat, head sharply rising from his newest project.  
“Are you trying to kill me, Bond? Heart attacks are the second most common cause of death in this place, or so Medical tells… Wait, what?”  
Bond kicks the door closed behind him and flops on Q's sofa. It's the middle of the night, agent's tie got lost somewhere in the day and the first button of his shirt is unmade, material slightly rumpled.  
“Desk job. Well, not literally, he wants me to teach newbies or something. Told him I'd consider it, of course after I was done laughing in his face.”  
Q blinks again, saves unfinished project of a stun gun for 001 and turns his full attention on James, eyebrows slightly raised.  
“So? Will you consider it?”  
Bond looks at the high ceiling, hands cradling the back of his head.  
“It seems so...strange,” he says eventually in a quiet voice that fills the empty space between them. “I always thought I'd die in the field and now M says I can have a white fucking fence. It's unreal. Like a dream.”  
“But is it a good dream, James?”  
Bond moves to look at his Quartermaster and for a long time they sit like that in silence, speaking only with their eyes.  
“You tell me.”  
Q doesn't know when did this happen, when the dreamlike quality of his imagined, other life merged with reality but he simply accepted it, embraced it. So he smiles and thinks of all the things they can have. Can, not could. The difference hits him and leaves him almost breathless with the prospect. Lazy Sundays, strolls in the park, dinners, Christmases, days and nights – yes, they can have it all and how many people in their line of work get this kind of chance?  
Q smiles because the choice really is ridiculously simple.  
“I'd say it's a splendid one.”  
And then he waits. Doesn't have to wait for long – James, when his brain analyzes and accepts what Q is saying, pretty much jumps off the couch and pulls the other man up. This time Q is not surprised, no, he waited for it so when Bond's fingers grasp his cardigan, he's ready and welcomes the searing kiss by parting his lips. For a moment they freeze like that, lips barely touching, hot air and thin layers of clothes between their chests, hips, cocks. It's the perfect second just before the storm hits, when everything is so clear and simple. But it can't last forever.  
The kiss threatens to burn them both alive, to last until there's nothing left, to merge them until they are one entity and not two separate human beings.  
“I'll get my coat,” gasps Q when they part, he has no idea how long did the kiss last: seconds? Minutes? It scares the hell out of him, losing himself in another person like this, not being able to tell the time. But at the same time it's exhilarating, so new and full of unforeseen possibilities. All in one kiss.  
He grabs his parka and they leave without another word, James' hand hot on his shoulder, fingers tightly holding the material of Q's cardigan. 

Q will learn about this later but one of the night shift techs sees them and understands so much even though she sees so little. She and Tanner have to split the winnings from the MI6-wide relationship betting pool. None of them minds it, really. 

They scare the cats, James' coat lands on Bonaparte where he's sleeping on the couch, Talleyrand hisses at them and Josephine end up kicked out of the bedroom with Q's shirt following her before Bond kicks the door shut. None of this matters, though Q does make a mental note to give them more snacks come tomorrow.  
Thinking suddenly gets much harder since Bond is working on a purple bruise in the hollow of Q's throat, every single prickle of pain going straight to Q's cock. For a moment it's all he feels, wet tongue soothing the sting and hot air coming in puffs over his feverish skin.  
“Bed,” James mutters while peppering Q's neck with kisses, Q's own fingers are busy dealing with an incredibly frustrating belt buckle Bond is wearing. Joined, tangled, they stumble to the king-size bed, the biggest luxury Q has allowed himself to have.  
There is no grace in their movements, no elegance in the way Q stumbles before kicking his shoes off, or how James has to take a moment to take off his socks. They laugh between kisses, Q's pants knock over the lamp, somewhere deep inside the apartment cats take to making sure Bond's coat has enough cat fur to keep him warm whole winter.  
It takes time, of course, to get naked, to find a comfortable spot on the bed, to check how their bodies fit together, a bit like puzzle pieces. Even though it's dark because none of them actually bothered to hit the light switch, dim street lamps pour warm, yellowish light into the room.  
Q feels like James' hands are everywhere, huge and hot, covering wast expanses of nearly translucent skin of Q's chest, ass, hips, teasing but never touching his aching cock. When he tries to reciprocate, Q is shushed and flipped over, James covering his whole body and gently biting the back of his neck.  
“Stop moving,” Bond growls into Q's ear, the low sound makes him shiver in anticipation. “Lube? Condom?”  
“Lube in the lower drawer,” he answers, at the same time trying to focus on something, the delicious slide of skin on skin when Bond reaches to the bedside table isn't really helping. “I'm clean, I can show you the records...”  
If Bond quietly whimpers at that, Q never knows, too focused on the feeling of slick fingers hovering over his opening, trying not to push his hips backwards, towards James. Not that he can help in, anyway, when Bond ever so slowly pushes first finger in. Q doesn't want gentle, he wants it all and he wants it now, he has no patience for the slow and careful. So he pushes back and James growls again.  
Q is a little bit proud that he feels the need to start reciting periodic table backwards only when they're up to three fingers and James finds his prostate.  
“Just fuck me already,” he demands somewhere between chromium and vanadium, voice cracking and hips trying to get some friction on their own volition. To his satisfaction, James' answering chuckle is somewhat strained and the sound of lube bottle opening follows almost immediately.

Q read somewhere that one has to be their own person. Bollocks, he thinks nearly incoherently. James pushing in feels like a long lost piece of Q has found its way home.

“Fuck,” he breaths as Bond stills, enjoying the feeling. In a moment the urge to pull back and then push again will be too overwhelming, it will be all there is in the world. But now? It's one of those moments forever frozen in soft, amber light. First one of many more to come, Q realizes and that makes him moan quietly before he manages to shut himself up. It's too late, the spell is already broken and James' body is all he can think of, all he can feel.  
Q loses track of time again but it's alright, now it's counted by deep, powerful thrusts and moans escaping his lips freely. James is silent but Q already knew that – Bond is loud in bed only on a mission, he's heard that so many times but no, it's not the time to think about it, not when it's so hot and there's no more air to breath, Q feels like he's drowning and maybe he really is, maybe they both are, the wave rises and James' fingers are on Q's cock, no rhythm but it doesn't matter. It feels like he's falling into the trembling, soft abyss and Bond's body, skin sticking to skin, is everything that keeps him from losing himself.  
He thinks he might have blacked out for a second. Maybe he did, who knows. Right now all he knows that it feels so right to put his arms around James and wait for the man to stop trembling with the force of his orgasm.

When finally James raises his head from where his forehead was on Q's collar bone, the air is slightly cooler, come on Q's belly already uncomfortably sticky.  
“Shit,” he comments quietly. Q laughs. That's all he can do now.

Later they'll do it again, slowly and watching each other, they'll fuck until it's already bright outside and for the first time in years Q will call in sick. He'll learn that Bond cooks and that his cats have already accepted the man (though it will take Talleyrand some time to get used to another person around). There will be a not-so-subtle key left for Bond on the dining room table, and most of Q's walk-in closet will be filled with suits.  
James Bond will be the first double-oh to retire and teach new agents, his legend preceding him. There will be a townhouse – not a white picket fence, too hard to defend, just in case – and eventually there will be a ring waiting for Q on their fifth anniversary.

But that will happen later.

Now it's just protective shadows and comfortable, sleepy silence ringing in the air, and no space between them.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr!](http://issayscorner.tumblr.com/)


End file.
